Her Very Own Bête Noire
by sansone
Summary: Post-Bête Noire (missing scenes from the episode). Kate has a nightmare of her own.


Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Sadly, they belong to some other people.

AN: This is my first NCIS fanfic. Reviews would be awesome!

* * *

Her Very Own Bête Noire

In the cold storage room bodies are thawing. Kate can hear it, drops of water, or you know other fluids – it's the metamorphosis of aggregates, but a little less poetic – and yet, she is cold and tugging at her sleeves. How did she end up here? Oh, yes, the terrorist. But where is Ducky? He was sitting right across from her, mouth restricted by duct tape, their communication diminished to a couple frantic glances from time to time. She closes her eyes, trying to hear beyond the dripping, beyond the tapping of liquid against marble. Just listen. And then she hears him, steady steps approaching her. She knows it's him because everyone else is gone and if they weren't, they would be rushing to save her, right, and damn it, he takes his time walking towards her…_or wait_. Straining to hear his steps again, she hears nothing, just the white noise of fear, lingering down her spine. Making her feel cold. Colder. _He is walking away_. Her hand is in a fist; it's as if she is holding on to ice, the sensation getting stronger with each passing second until she's had enough and she opens her eyes, opens her hand. Release. She's alone, a deep breath escaping her lungs, arranging its molecules into a white cloud. Kate is freezing.

Then she sees him. _He was never gone. _Amidst the white mist, he is a mere shadow, a lean back and broad shoulders, whose contours blur at the edges. A glance at the floor, inches away from her hand, right where she dropped it earlier, is the knife – or whatever they call it – to dissect bodies. On instinct, she grabs it, springing up to her feet. She feels weightless, preying on the terrorist. Is he _the _terrorist? Could it be Gibbs or someone else? Is he _a _terrorist? She doesn't know anymore. But she knows she needs to finish what she started earlier. It's easy when your target is not moving, when he has no idea what has always been bound to happen.

The moment she strikes is the moment she knows. She is powerless. Blood coats her fingers, drops trickling down her arm as gravity takes its course. The cut isn't deep enough. She never stood a chance against his body armor, so she went for the neck. But with her stature, she could only scar, the angled cut simply grazing the surface. Letting go of the knife, she waits because she can. It's over anyway. She was given the chance to alter the game, but she would never go to the next level, would she?

He turns around and looks down at her, a look that is supposed to scare, but doesn't. It's the calmness in his eyes that force her to hold his gaze. It's comforting in a way, because she's already accepted it. She is to die under his hand. _There. _He reaches for the knife, and takes it out, without a flinch. Only to run it across his own throat, arterial blood painting the white walls in red. Particle by particle, pixel by pixel, he disintegrates right in front of Kate, leaving her alone in the storage room where it all started.

Alone in her own bed, drowning under the covers, she tries to catch her breath among the waves of fabric.

* * *

Special agent Caitlin Todd doesn't have nightmares, but Kate does. She looks at the clock on her bedside table and it's barely past midnight. _Good luck with sleep. _On a night like this one, she wouldn't mind sleeping next to a person, and not with her gun. Pushing the covers off her body, a weight is lifted and for a moment, she feels free, at liberty to, to go to the kitchen and make coffee. Because that's sensible. Gibbs can yell at her tomorrow morning when she's late for all she cares. _That's just how I roll. That's how I forget about this._

* * *

It's late when they let him go. At the end of the hallway, he can spot DiNozzo and Abby waiting for him. Even though the gunshot wound had been through and through, they had brought him to the hospital and now with his arm in a bandage, Gibbs feels the stare of concrete as he walks down the corridor – his own personal walk of shame. He had him, but he should have known better. With help on the inside, the terrorist – whoever he is - is most probably long gone. No trace, no way to find him.

For a moment it looks like he's going to walk past Tony and Abby, but they are not about to let him go.

"Boss, how are you feeling?" asks Tony, undoubtedly trying to lend his support; unintentionally, patting Gibbs' wounded shoulder.

"Gibbs, do you need a ride home?" Abby offers, rolling her eyes at Tony, who has the decency to step back after meeting a certain stare, a trademark, really. It's the frown and squinted eyes of Gibbs that quiet him.

Home? He is not going _home_. He needs to go back to the NCIS headquarters and find the bastard. Doesn't matter what the doctors said. He's just going to get in his car and –

"Abbs, where is Kate?" the calmness of his voice is striking even to him, he is good at bottling up his feelings that way. And right now, it's a scary mixture of pain, worry and anger.

"I don't know, Gibbs…After the squad helped her out, she went back up."

"Yeah, I talked to her. I think she went home," adds Tony, no trace of his usual confidence, as if afraid of Gibbs' reaction or of any further questions he might not be able to answer.

"Good," he breathes, his voice quiet, yet assertive.

And just like that Jethro Gibbs exits the hospitals, leaving the other two behind, who know better than to follow him, because sometimes it's best to leave him alone.

* * *

After that one cup of coffee, sleep is out of the question. Instead, Kate finds a distraction, the best thing after sliced bread, really - late night reruns of _Arrested Development. _Because she doesn't need any more drama in her life, which a procedural show would ultimately bring. _Nothing's wrong with a little comedy, is it?_ Then she hears it.

The sound of distant steps, getting more prominent with each passing second, sharpens her senses even more than the intake of caffeine. The blare of the TV is not a distraction anymore, it's _distracting_, because she can't concentrate and damn it, she's not going down without a fight. In the moments that follow, she grabs the Sig Sauer next to her on the couch and then quietly runs off to the door. It's locked; she knows that. So what? On the other side of the door, she hears movement, that might just be someone reaching for their gun and –

"Let me see your hands up or I'll shoot you! I swear, you have no idea…" _what I'm capable of. _As hard as it is to see in the dark, she recognizes that particular shadow.

"Gibbs! What –" Kate starts, but then steps back, hitting the light switch. "Come in," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, in contrast with her recent volubility.

He walks in, and it's then that she notices the bandage around his arm and the guilt creeps in. _Now that explains why he raised one hand up._ She's not recovered yet; her pulse is rushing, and she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, loud, louder. She must be pale, too, because Gibbs looks concerned, prompted to ask, "Are you okay, Kate? Kate?"

Yes, she is fine. All she needs is time to process that it was just a dream. No one is preying on her _tonight_. It's okay.

She nods, musters up a smile even, which is not very reassuring, nonetheless. Gibbs knows that and she knows that he knows. It's futile to try and fool him. Might as well be honest.

"Doesn't matter how I'm feeling. You're the one who got shot, Gibbs," she tries to bring levity to something that is on the other side of the spectrum. As if to avoid his reaction, she walks back to the living room, a preamble to turning the TV off and sitting down.

Gibbs smiles to himself, because she is trying. Trying to make it normal, casual even, but it runs deeper than that. "Did I wake you up?" he asks, sitting down next to her.

"No, I was up. I had coffee earlier and I –" she falters, looking to the side at her gun, which somehow always ends up by her side. The only thing she can count on for consistency.

"Do you want coffee, Gibbs?" she asks, breaking the silence and looking up at him again, having realized he's been watching her and _they_, they've been silent for a while. It's ridiculous, asking this at 1 in the morning, but then again, what is he doing here that late?

"You couldn't sleep," he murmurs, and it's a statement; she can't argue with that. Leave it to Gibbs to read others well, yet remain a mystery himself.

"I had a nightmare, that's all," she breathes, a bottled up sigh finally finding release. She is afraid – afraid of being afraid, that is. But she doesn't let go, holding on to the unreadable expression of his eyes, as if that very contact would lull her back to normalcy.

"What's bothering you, Kate?" he asks, his voice retaining its calmness but his features darken. This is not the Gibbs who would smile at Kate, for her sarcastic remark at DiNozzo or because of her impressive skills as a profiler.

"It's all my fault, Gibbs. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I had that knife in my hand, he had his back turned, I should have just…None of this would have happened, if only I had – " her voice trails off, shaky at the effort not to crack. Her eyes follow the length of Gibbs' wounded arm, then she pulls her knees up, finding the need to hold on to something, be it herself. _She needs to calm down._

The moment she reaches for her hand is the moment she embraces her knees, so Gibbs places a hand on her shoulder instead, fingertips sensing the knots in her muscles. It's a soothing touch; the soft pressure he applies aims at fighting back the tension. "It's not your fault, Katie," he says, still looking at her, even though she's been avoiding his eyes. As soon as the name slips out, his lower lip catches in between his teeth, as if to cover up that pale hint of a smile.

She was not expecting that. Comforted by his touch, transfixed even, she was taken aback when he broke the silence. Her legs find release and she shifts back in her seat, this time looking up at him. Because he is still taller than her. He is still the guy who pulled that stunt on Air Force 1 and endured her rage, holding her close as she cried. Gibbs is still the man who holds her now, one hand spread widely and pressed against her shoulder blade, in an effort to encompass an extra inch. Who lets her lean her head against his right shoulder, whispering sweet alrights in her ear right before she falls asleep.

* * *

That night when he goes back to his house, Gibbs doesn't work on the boat. Instead, he shoots at a nameless face, whose picture is stuck on the wall. Repeatedly.


End file.
